


The Criminal Who Came For Tea

by 653d21



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Injured Jamie and Joan being a doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2777864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/653d21/pseuds/653d21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a year, a full year, since they had heard from Moriarty. Which was perhaps why Joan was as surprised as she was, though she had every right to be; it wasn’t every day you woke up to your archenemy in your bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Early Morning Happenings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queercophine](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=queercophine).



> for queercophine on tumblr as a Christmas gift

Jamie staggered along the street, trying to run but tripping and stumbling instead. _How did everything go downhill so fast?_ The image of her bodyguard lying on the concrete basement floor of her contact flashed through her mind, searing itself onto her retinas. He was a good man, she thought ruefully, and a better employee. She would be sorry to see him go.

She glanced fearfully behind her as she neared the street corner and her eyes widened as she caught sight of her pursuers. Looking around, she ducked into a back alley and, with shaking hands, drew her gun from its holster. Jamie pressed herself against the grimy brick wall, took a deep breath and raised her arm.

The men ran past the alley without noticing her.

“Where’d she go?”

“I dunno but we’d better find her. The boss’ll be mad if we’ve lost her.”

She heard their footsteps turn the corner and fade. As she tentatively poked her head around the side of the building, she mentally ran through her options relating to her current situation. _The house in West Village was obviously not an option...the one on the Upper East Side was under surveillance from the CIA..._ She hissed and clutched her hands to her stomach; her hand had brushed her side which started up the bleeding again. Wherever she was going, it had better be close; she wasn’t in a fit state to go far.

Swiftly, her mind fell to an idea. It wasn’t necessarily a good idea, in fact it was probably one of her worst, but it was certainly better than nothing. Jamie holstered her weapon and set off.

 

×

 

  _This had better be a nightmare._

 

It had been a year, a full year, since they had heard from Moriarty. Which was perhaps why Joan was as surprised as she was, though she had every right to be; it wasn’t every day you woke up to your archenemy in your bedroom.

As Joan pushed herself into a sitting position and rubbed sleep out of her eyes, she reasoned that it had been too good to last. Her sleep-riddled brain confirmed the sight before her and she mentally groaned. _Just what I wanted to see at_ – she checked her bedside clock – _2am in the morning._

Moriarty was stood at the end of her bed, the streetlight from outside throwing a shadow over her pale face. _What could she possibly be doing here?_ Joan’s mind fell to ideas that would have made even Sherlock blush. _Let’s not think about_ that _right now._

She shook her head to rid herself of the thoughts and kept her eyes locked on the mastermind’s face as she tried to subtly reach for her phone. Sherlock was out but would be back within five minutes if she texted him.

_Time to stall._

“W-why are you here?” Joan blurted, her voice cracking, “I thought you were still in prison.”

There was no response. Joan’s searching fingers brushed the handle of the single-stick propped against her night stand and she decided it was worth a try, as Moriarty hadn’t shot her yet. Her fingers wrapped around the handle and she took a deep breath.

The detective leapt out of bed and swung the single-stick up so it was level with Moriarty’s chest. Moriarty flinched slightly and Joan was taken-aback; she had not once before seen the criminal show any sign of weakness, even as she was taken away by the ambulance after her last meeting with Sherlock. Weaknesses were not a thing you could afford to have in a career such as hers.

She desperately tried to ignore the fact that she was dressed in only her pyjamas in front of her adversary and focus on not letting Moriarty get the upper hand. She adjusted her grip on the makeshift weapon and repeated herself.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?” Her voice was steady this time and she praised herself for it.

Moriarty hadn’t moved a muscle and spoke in a weak voice.

“Always diving straight into action...” she muttered sarcastically, and then stifled a cough.

Joan frowned and fumbled behind herself for the lamp switch. She found it and the room lit up with a soft glow. Moriarty closed her eyes, shielding them against the bright light. Joan let out a gasp. _What on earth..._

The criminal’s face was drawn and deathly pale; her hands were pressed to her abdomen and covered with blood. She swayed slightly on the spot and her eyelids fluttered. They snapped open and her pale eyes were unfocused as she stared at Joan.

“I...apologise for intruding like this but...I didn’t know where else to go.” she uttered quietly.

Joan just stood there, completely dumbfounded. She didn’t know what to focus on first; the fact that her archenemy, the criminal genius– with contacts all over the city, claimed she didn’t know where else to go apart from the house of the man she lied to for three years, who, incidentally, put her in prison, or the fact that _Moriarty_ , the unflappable, unapologetic, unrelenting mastermind had just given her an _apology._  

She was probably here to rob them, or kidnap Joan to hold ransom, the detective decided. Her mind wandered to the thought of being held hostage by Moriarty...perhaps ropes were involved for being tied up... _Mind out of the gutter and back to the topic – or person –_ _at hand._

“You...you do have medical training, do you not?” Moriarty enquired, her voice still weak, “I believe it will come in useful.”

Joan wondered what she could be referring to, as she stared down the criminal. There was silence for a brief moment, then Moriarty’s head lolled on her shoulders and she crumpled to the ground.

Joan blinked.


	2. It pays to know a doctor (or an ex one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan's doctoring skills

Joan poked the body with her single-stick. _Definitely unconscious._ After a few moments, her years of medical training kicked in. She rolled over the body and eased Moriarty’s arms out of her jacket. The criminal was bleeding heavily, and had been for over an hour, judging from the blood-soaked jacket. If she wasn’t given medical attention soon, she could bleed out.

Joan assessed the situation; one injured criminal mastermind, who was unconscious, bleeding out and quite probably on the run from the police. The clever thing to do here was to call Captain Gregson and an ambulance (in that order).

 Just as she picked up her phone, Joan felt a stirring in her stomach as she remembered the man whose life she was unable to save. Then she remembered the oath she swore to herself, in those first few weeks of mourning: _I will never let another person die on my watch if I can help it. Never, never, never._ She supposed that this covered archenemies as well.

Fetching the first-aid kit from under the stairs, Joan quickly sent a text to Sherlock ‘ **bit of a situation. come home quick** ’ and got to work.  She removed Mor- _the patient’s_ shirt bloody shirt and cleaned her torso.

There was a strap attached to her waist which turned out to be a holster (with the gun in). Joan removed it and flung it into a corner. _I’ll deal with that later._

In the absence of all the blood, she found the wound.

It was a deep gash, probably from a knife, roughly 4 inches in length running down her left side, just below her ribs. Joan tied up her hair, found some disposable gloves, and prepared to operate. It was a good job she always kept their first-aid box full of everything medical you could possibly need; including cotton and surgical needles.

Twelve minutes, one roll of cotton, and half a bottle of antiseptic later, Sherlock arrived home.

Joan propped a pillow from her bed under Moriarty’s head then removed her disposable gloves and walked to the landing.

“Sherlock,” she called softly, “up here.”

The detective bounded up the stairs three at a time, brandishing some historic dagger they had used on a case a few months ago.

“What is it Watson? Did something happen?”

“You can put _that_ down, I’ve done enough operating for tonight – although I suppose it’s morning now.”

Joan took the dagger off him and gestured to her room. Sherlock peered round the doorframe and his entire body stiffened. He spun around, his face full of fury.

“What is she doing here?” he bit out, from between clenched teeth.

Joan thought of all possible answers, all situations that could have lead to this. The truth wasn’t even the most believable story. She sighed and shifted from foot to foot.

“She’s injured. I don’t even know why she’s _here_.” Joan took another glance at the blonde head resting on the floor of her bedroom. She felt a pang of something – Fear? Sympathy? Protectiveness?

She sighed heavily again and walked into the room, avoiding the creaky floorboards. Joan turned back to Sherlock who was loitering in the doorway.

“We can discuss what the hell we're going to do with her in the morning but right now, I need your help to get her onto the bed.” She whispered.

Sherlock stayed stubbornly in the doorway. Joan rolled her eyes exasperatedly.

“Sherlock. She is injured. I know what she has done but I could not let her die; I will not have that on my conscience. Not again.”

She whispered the last bit but Sherlock’s keen ears caught it. He slumped moodily across the room and took hold of Moriarty’s legs. Joan nodded at him and they both listed the unconscious body onto the bed. Joan checked the wound and, satisfied that it was suitable, turned to Sherlock and opened her mouth to speak.

“I will remain here to guard her and you may take my room instead.” He cut her off.

Joan hesitated but he continued, “You confiscated my sacrificial dagger and I give you my word that I will not bludgeon her to death with a single-stick while she is unconscious.”

Joan nodded sleepily and scooped up Moriarty’s gun on her way to the door. In the doorway, she glanced back and saw Sherlock had settled himself in a chair in the corner, a single-stick in his hand. She frowned slightly at that but he had given her his word, which he had not broken once since she had known him. She headed down the hall, leaving the detective shrouded in shadows, his eyes locked onto the figure on the bed.

As she fell into bed, Joan glanced at the clock. 2:25am the display read. She groaned internally and curled up. The stress of the night had exhausted her and she was asleep in no time.


	3. That was...unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's got a case, and Jamie and Joan have some privacy

Jamie stirred in her sleep. Nightmares were not a rare occurrence for her, but that did not make them any less unpleasant. Visions of torture at the hands of her rivals were particularly common, and tonight was no different.

She jolted awake, her heart racing. She looked around. _Where was she?_

Jamie surveyed the scene before her with increasing worry. _In a bed. Strange room. A person in the corner._

She reached for the holster she kept strapped to her hip. It wasn’t there. _Shit..._

The figure in the corner moved into the light and Jamie was relieved to find that she wasn’t going to be killed by her competitors, although slightly worried by the fact that Sherlock might kill her instead, judging by the look on his face.

“Watson took the liberty of relieving you of your weapons before I arrived.” Sherlock stood up as he spoke and walked to the end of the bed.

Jamie rolled her eyes and moved to stand up.

“Well that’s–” she started sarcastically, before wincing and pressing her hands to her left side.

“Ah yes,” Sherlock said, “just in case you forgot during your brief period of unconsciousness; you were stabbed – quite brutally might I add – and Watson patched you up.” He looked almost petulant at the thought of someone else harming _his_ archenemy, after all, that was _his_ job.

Jamie slid out of bed and examined the dressing on her side. Sherlock lifted the single-stick and followed her movements with it, his eyes regarding her distrustfully.

The work was impeccably neat. _Even after so many years, she’s not lost her skill_.

“Quite the artist, isn’t she?” Sherlock commented, “She’s patched me up countless times and it’s always the highest level of work.” Jamie nodded her agreement.

There was a creak on the floorboards outside the room and both of their heads turned towards the noise. Joan stood sheepishly in the hallway. Her eyes widened as she saw Jamie out of bed and she looked between Sherlock and Jamie a few times. Apparently satisfied that they were not going to kill each other, she addressed Jamie.

“If you rip the stitches, I’m not re-doing them.”

Then she walked into the bathroom and closed the door with a snap.

Sherlock stared at the place Joan was a few seconds ago.

“She is noticeably tenser than usual.” He mused. He shook his head, as if confused, then turned his attention back to Jamie.

“Okay, basic rules of being in the brownstone; do not touch any of my things, do not touch any of Watson’s things, do not touch Watson, do not do anything and preferably turn yourself into the police right now and save them the hassle of finding you later.” He rattled off while glaring at her.

Jamie rolled her eyes at him again.

He opened his mouth to speak once more but was cut off by a beeping from his pocket. Frowning, he pulled it out and examined it before rushing out of the room, apparently having forgotten about Jamie’s presence. She followed him, smirking amusedly and saw him banging on the bathroom door.

“Watson,” he hollered through the door, “we’ve got a case!”

“Can’t you handle it without me?” called back Joan, her voice muffled through the door.

“I am not leaving you alone with a murderer in the house!” He protested.

“Sherlock,” Joan started, exasperatedly,” I’m completely capable of looking after myself.”

Sherlock sighed and scowled at Jamie before turning back to the door.

“I’ll text you hourly if it makes you feel any better.” She added.

“Are you sure that you will be alright with _her_ in the house?” He queried.

“Absolutely fine.” she replied, “Now that the entire street knows you’ve got a case, leave me to shower in peace.”

Sherlock glowered at Jamie one last time then dashed downstairs, grabbing his coat. He paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned back.

“I have not injured you as of yet due to your being wounded, however if you as much as _think_ about hurting Watson, I will not hesitate to do you harm. Do you understand?” He addressed her harshly.

“You have my word that Joan shall not be harmed in any way.” She replied, deadly serious.

Sherlock turned on his heel and dashed onto the street. The door slammed, shaking the building and Jamie shook her head; he had always been that enthusiastic, especially when trying to impress Irene, she remembered.

Bringing herself back to the present, she decided to change out of her blood splattered top into one of Joan’s.

She strolled across the room to the chest of drawers and pulled open a draw. Jamie didn’t have a problem with wearing tight fitting clothes, which was just as well seeing as Joan was smaller than her and therefore so were her clothes.

The blonde woman picked out a baggy t-shirt and, without stretching her side too much, wriggled out of her blouse.

As she picked up the t-shirt, she sensed a gaze on her and turned her head. Joan was stood in the doorway, her eyes fixed decidedly south of Jamie’s face, a towel clutched around her. As flush spread across her chest and made its way up her neck.

Jamie smirked. This was an unexpected reaction; and one she could have a lot of fun with.

The mastermind slipped into the t-shirt and sauntered towards Joan. The shorter woman gulped and clasped the towel even tighter around her.

Joan tilted her chin up as the blonde neared and flicked her eyes up to meet the other woman’s. Jamie didn’t break eye contact as she stepped right into the detective’s personal space. She didn’t miss Joan’s quick glance at her lips either. She leaned in closer and saw the blood pumping furiously in the vein on Joan’s neck. Her breath stole across the smaller woman’s skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake and she

“You’re staring.” She breathed. Then she straightened up and waltzed out of the room and down the stairs.


	4. Moriarty's findings

When Joan came downstairs, Jamie tried to suggest that since she wasn't bleeding anymore, perhaps she should leave, but Joan refused to let her leave because “you've suffered enormous blood loss” and “who knows what you’ll do to get revenge”.

This caused Jamie to spend the next hour pouting in a corner as Joan tried to ignore her and get some work done. This didn’t work as well as she hoped and Joan was distracted every few minutes by Jamie tapping on her chair or humming under her breath.

 The criminal was bored out of her mind; a trait she shared with Sherlock was a need for constant stimulation, and extreme boredom and jitteriness if her constant need for something to do wasn’t met. She sighed for the sixth time in two minutes and decided that even being incarcerated was more interesting than this.

“If you’re bored,” Joan started, without looking up, “you could always do something useful and help me with this case.”

From the look on her face, she was just as surprised at her offer as Jamie was. The mastermind shrugged and wandered over to the floor where Joan was surrounded by what looked like the entire contents of a filing cabinet.

Jamie walked around the mess on the floor until she was behind Joan, who stiffened almost imperceptibly at her presence. Moriarty grinned at this reaction; another tell-tale sign.

She surveyed the photos and files with a small frown.

“Well, I can certainly see why you’re stumped.” She told Joan.

Jamie sat down next to the detective and reached for the case file. Ten minutes and one thorough reading of the police’s – in her opinion, sloppy and unorganised – work later, she cracked a grin.

“Did you interview the neighbour?” She questioned with a knowing smirk.

“Uhm...Mr Ford?” Joan replied, shifting papers to find the relevant one, “No, it doesn’t say so.”

“I suggest you do,” the criminal said as she stood up,”seeing as he did it.”

As Joan re-examined the papers, Jamie ambled over to the bookshelves and scanned the titles for anything she hadn’t read before. ‘The Complete History of Jack The Ripper’ caught her eye and she plucked it from the bookshelf. She leafed through the pages and ambled across the room to the sofa. Perching on the seat, she flicked through the pages, her pale eyes skimming each one.

She heard a faint exclamation of understanding from Joan as the detective realised how Jamie had worked it out. She smirked at the sound and addressed the woman in the next room.

“Figured it out have you?” She asked drily, glancing over to the work-space on the floor.

Joan flicked her attention up to Moriarty and appeared to be on the brink of scolding her for cheek – as if she was Sherlock – but thought better of it and began clearing away the folders and dossiers. She gathered them up and began replacing them where they belonged. As she returned a book to the bookshelves, Jamie could have sworn she muttered a barely perceptible ‘thank you’ when she passed by.

 

×

 

The rest of the day passed relatively tediously, Joan tiptoeing around and just generally trying to avoid Jamie. She prepared lunch, which Jamie declined until being told severely that she needed to eat and if she didn’t eat this way, Joan would be forced to put a tube down her throat and feed her _that_ way.

Jamie ate the food without complaining.

After lunch, Jamie decided to pass time by creating an experiment to see what reactions she could get from Joan by saying things, touching her or being in her personal space.

Her results were as such:

**Saying things** – insinuating inappropriate/sexual things provoked a shocked glance and minor blushing, innuendo caused major blushing and stopping whatever task was at hand

**Touching her** – their fingers touching caused quick withdrawal of her hand and avoiding eye contact, brushing her hand against Joan’s side made the detective’s whole body freeze up and caused a sharp in-taking of breath

**Being in her personal space** – being any closer than one metre caused Joan to lose concentration on whatever she was doing and provoked irregular breathing

 

**Conclusion:** Joan Watson – to use the colloquial term – fancied her. _And_ she had the scientific evidence to prove it.


	5. Well that was slightly awkward

Joan was peeved.

Not only was her arch-enemy in her house, disrupting her work, she was also being particularly irritating. The blonde woman was stalking around, saying inappropriate things and touching Joan.

The detective was a good actress, but only to a certain extent and she was pretty sure that the criminal knew about her feelings, and was trying to provoke a reaction. _Who ‘_ accidentally _’ brushes someone’s hand with their fingers four times in as many minutes?_

Besides from just being irritating, it was also rather unnerving. Joan tensed up anytime Moriarty neared her which only provoked more smirking from the criminal. _Why does she have to look so attractive when she’s smirking?_

After four hours of Moriarty’s infuriating behaviour, Joan decided that the sooner the blonde woman left, the better; however it would be irresponsible to let her patient go without first checking on her wound.

×

 

“I need to change the dressing on your wound,” the detective addressed Jamie who was sitting on the sofa, reading her fourth book in one hour, “after that you can leave.”

Jamie stood and followed Joan to the kitchen table, where Joan indicated she should sit. She perched on the edge as Joan retrieved gauze, antiseptic wipes and medical tape from under the stairs.

Joan placed the items on the table next to Jamie.

“You need, uh...your...um,” Joan was quite flustered as she forced out, “You need to, uh, remove your – my – t-shirt please.”

Jamie grinned at Joan’s uncomfort and removed the borrowed t-shirt.

The ex-doctor kept her eyes firmly on Jamie’s side as she worked. Nimble fingers carefully peeled the medical tape away from her side, leaving tinged-pink skin behind them.

Joan studiously avoided eye contact as she reapplied a bandage. Jamie felt the warmth of her hand seep through the mesh of the fabric as Joan smoothed down the tape and her breath caught in her throat. The blonde woman closed her eyes briefly and relaxed into Joan’s touch, enjoying the feeling of intimacy.

Joan glanced up, having heard the inhalation, and her eyebrows pulled together slightly.

“Does it hurt very much?” She questioned, “Because I have some painkillers you can take if it does.”

Jamie shook her head and Joan looked at her disbelievingly but left it. They stayed like that for a few moments; looking into each other’s eyes, Joan’s hand resting on the mastermind’s side. Jamie noticed the detective’s proximity and saw her tongue dart out to wet her lips. Joan unconsciously leant forwards so she was centimetres away from the blonde woman’s face, standing between her legs.

A car horn honked outside and they both jumped. Joan looked rather flustered and quickly withdrew her hand from Jamie’s hip.

“I’ll just...” She trailed off, gesturing to the first aid tin. Joan gathered up the bandages and tin, and practically ran out of the room.

Jamie swore under her breath. _Damn that car._ She hopped off the table and snatched up the t-shirt. Strolling through the house, she cursed her luck; it _had_ to happen just as she was about to kiss Joan.

Sprawled on the sofa, she picked up her book and resumed scanning it. Three attempts at reading one paragraph later, she gave up on reading. Her eyes were skimming the pages but her mind wasn’t taking them in, preoccupied with thinking about the nearly-kiss.

 

Jamie’s attention drifted again when Joan came back into the room, carrying yet more paperwork. The detective settled herself at the desk this time, and spread the documents across the workspace with just a self-conscious glance at the blonde woman. Jamie felt her heart sink. _Was she just going to ignore her now?_

Deciding it was time to leave, Jamie rose and placed her book back on the shelf where it belonged. Careful not to disturb Joan’s work, she climbed the stairs and retrieved her gun, holster and shoes. She put them on and wandered back downstairs.

Joan hadn’t looked up from her work so Jamie padded over to her chair and inspected her work. Joan sensed her presence and stiffened before glancing up. When she took in Jamie’s fully dressed self, a flicker of disappointment crossed her face before being replaced by indifference.

“You’re leaving now?” She inquired, with badly feigned nonchalance.

Jamie nodded.

“Are you sure you don’t want those painkillers?”

“Quite sure.” Jamie replied.

 “Okay. Well before you leave, I removed the magazine from your gun,” Joan said, rummaging in the desk drawers,” and I don’t want any more weaponry lying around for Sherlock to injure someone with, so you should probably have it back.”

She held it out and Jamie took it, her fingers wrapping around Joan’s. She pulled her hand back and Joan’s remained outstretched for a couple of moments before she brought her own hand back to her side.

Jamie expertly loaded the magazine into the gun and holstered it at her hip.

She took a long look at Joan, who turned to go back to her desk, before deciding _Stuff it, I might not get another chance._

Jamie reached out and caught Joan’s wrist, pulled the detective into her arms and kissed her.


	6. An experience to remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry this took so long for me to get out. but here it is, the final chapter! thanks for reading guys!

 

Sherlock whistled as he jumped up the stairs to the brownstone. Another case solved, another criminal behind bars.

He slowed as he reached the top of the stairs and fumbled in his pockets for the key. While he searched for it, Moriarty stumbled out of the door, gripping her coat.

She was flushed and her lips were rosy.

“Leaving so soon? What a shame.” he quipped.

As she brushed past Sherlock, he noticed a reddening handprint on her cheek.

His eyes narrowed and he stretched out his arm to block her path but Moriarty ducked past it and turned to face him.

“I enjoyed my little visit,” she said as she slipped into her coat, pulling her hair out from under the collar,”perhaps I’ll drop by again sometime.”

“Why is there a handprint?” Sherlock asked her, pointing to her face,” on your cheek.”

He knew that with Moriarty’s reflexes and skill, she could avoid nearly any hit, including one from Joan. He was assuming it had been Joan as he hope Moriarty’s rivals hadn’t paid them a visit while he was out. So why did she let herself be hit?

Moriarty placed her hand over her cheek and grinned.

“Joan can look after herself.” She replied, smirking at him, her eyes sparkling.

Sherlock opened his mouth to demand an explanation but Moriarty cut him off.

“I’ll see you both soon.” She called over her shoulder, then she was gone in the New York traffic.

Sherlock wondered if her last words were a threat or a promise. He shook himself out of his thoughts and stepped through the door to the brownstone.

“Joan?” He called, walking into the sitting room.

She was stood in the middle of the room, staring into space, her fingers touching her lips. She appeared not to have heard him.

“Joan?” He repeated, striding towards her.

She blinked rapidly and turned her head to look at him.

“Are you alright? Did she hurt you? I’ll call Detective Gregson immediately.” Sherlock grabbed his phone.

Joan appeared to snap out of her trance.

“Don’t worry,” she said softly,” I’m fine.”

She turned and walked quietly upstairs, appearing to be deep in thought.

Sherlock stood there, bewildered. _Nevermind, I’ll get it out of her later._

×

Joan stood in her room, her mind racing. What the hell had just happened?! Her lips...the feeling of Jamie’s hand tangled in her hair...the intoxicating smell of Jamie’s perfume; it was certainly not an experience she was going to forget anytime soon.

Pacing up and down, she tried to get her thoughts together enough to go downstairs and face Sherlock again.

As she walked, her phone buzzed. Hoping it would provide some distraction from her current situation, she unlocked it and opened her messages.

It was from an unknown number and read ‘ **thanks for the medical treatment doctor. you seemed to enjoy my visit, perhaps i’ll drop by again some time? ;)** ’.

Joan felt her cheeks redden again and cursed at the reaction. She didn’t like Jamie, honestly, but maybe she would leave the back door unlocked in future.

Just in case...


End file.
